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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591429">The Act of Becoming</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmunetMana/pseuds/AmunetMana'>AmunetMana</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Arrangement [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crossdressing, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Set at some point after MAG 92, The Magnus Archives Season 3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:08:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,205</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591429</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmunetMana/pseuds/AmunetMana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Returned to the Institute after his time in hiding, Jon finds himself caught between what he once was and what he is now becoming.</p><p>However, just what and who it is he’s becoming has yet to be decided.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Arrangement [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Act of Becoming</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am a simple fellow of simple pleasures. I see art of Jon in a dress, and I simply must write fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon has never worn anything quite like it before. He has dabbled with skirts in past, long flowing things past his knees or all the way down to the floor, but that had been back in his Uni years when his and Georgie’s wardrobes had slowly but surely fused into one. He’d been in that strange inbetween place then, a specific young place that brimmed with reckless confidence, heavy boots and leather jackets, wild and irreverent before he’d finally put all that away to graduate and join the real world.</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard to remember the real world now, perched on the edge of Elias’ desk. He’s returned to the inbetween now – halfway between human and monster, between madness and sanity – between denial and enlightenment. Halfway between the person he used to be and someone he isn’t sure he knows, as Elias forms the trailing white fabric at the neck of the dress Jon’s wearing into a full, elegant bow. There is something almost playful to it, soft and clean and crisp. It’s a simple dress, black but for the bow, and clings to his body with sleeves that reach Jon’s elbows and a skirt that flutters around his upper thighs.</p><p> </p><p>It is already far too short by Institute dress code guidelines and is currently rucked up even shorter by the way Jon’s legs are splayed open to make room for Elias in the space between them. It makes Jon feel like the naughty secretary in a porn video and he ducks his head to the side, embarrassed. Elias makes a noise of amusement, and Jon has no doubt Elias is peering into his mind, watching his thoughts. Elias finally releases the bow, satisfied after his fussing, and runs his hands gently over Jon’s shoulders, trailing down his arms where they settle. His thumbs sweep back and forth in small, soothing motions, and Jon shivers as they barely brush against his bare skin, crossing the boundary between fabric and flesh.</p><p> </p><p>Elias lingers there for a moment before stepping back studying Jon critically. Without his solid presence there, Jon immediately draws in on himself, hunching in, drawing his legs together tight, face flaming. It doesn’t matter that nothing else has changed; he is no longer pressed to Elias, no longer hidden against him. He is being watched, <em>studied</em>, and very abruptly aware that there is no way he looks anything but ridiculous right now. He wishes he could sink down through the floor, down into the depths of his archives, crawl back into the shell of who he used to be where no one will see him and no one will know about any of this.</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the more rational part of his mind, beyond the fear and anxiety, he doesn’t understand his own reaction. He hadn’t been embarrassed or ashamed in Elias’ office where everyone had seen him burst it, half-crazed from stress and dressed halfway between the ghost of his uni days and a hobo, but this just feels different. Feels significant and embarrassing and private in a way he can’t precisely name. Perhaps it is because it is shared with Elias; Elias whom he should hate, Elias who all but framed him for murder, Elias whom he should <em>not </em>be hiding in the office of, accepting his help and encouragement with this, this strange, nebulous thing.</p><p> </p><p>Jon struggles to remember the exact steps that he led him there at all. Elias pulling him to the side, perhaps where they’d talked about…what? Doggedly avoiding his assistants, chewing over his thoughts, over the conversation, until somehow he’d ended up back at Elias’ door, being ushered gently in. Being told to <em>trust</em>. And Jon supposes he must have trusted, passing through the motions as Elias guided him along, through a strange dream state that find him sat daintily before his boss in a dress and hosiery. Elias had even taken the time to curl Jon’s long hair, taming it from the nest-like form it had taken and into full, fat ringlets before Jon had peeled off his clothes, tumbling down and over his shoulders as he’d eased into the dress instead.</p><p> </p><p>Jon hadn’t had long hair since Uni either. Had forgotten how to take care of it, just as he’d forgotten how to take care of himself too. But unruly hair and a lack of self-care were just things that happened after you were attacked by worms and left brutally scarred; as you watched your life fall to pieces around you with no way out to be seen.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t even just the scars from the worms anymore. Now it was worms, and burns, and knife slices at his throat. The last, at least, was hidden by the bow at his neck (at least – he hoped it was. He hadn’t actually seen it, couldn’t actually be sure – ) but there was no disguising the rest. For every worm scar hidden under the scarce fabric of the dress, there were a dozen more on show. They seemed to glow lurid on his legs, not hidden at all by the flimsy sheen of the stockings. Ugly, puckered marks that marred him from head to toe and would never, could never be fixed. Just like the burn on his hand, twisted and ugly, thick scar tissue that warped and wrapped around him in the shape of Jude’s grip. It was unsalvageable. <em>Jon</em> was unsalvageable. Ugly.</p><p> </p><p>“None of that now,” Elias tells him, and Jon is drawn abruptly back into the present. Elias is close again, hands firm on his arms, pulling at them until Jon yields, going limp and allowing Elias to tug them down to his sides, pushing on Jon’s shoulders until he is forced to straighten, before sliding a finger under Jon’s chin to tilt his gaze upwards at Elias. “There,” Elias says, and pulls Jon’s hands into his own, holding them like something delicate. “That’s better, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p><em>No</em>, Jon doesn’t say, knowing full well Elias will hear anyway. <em>Of course it’s not. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.</em> “There’s – ” Jon’s throat is dry, words rasping, and he is forced to clear it with a cough before he can speak. “There’s no point to any of this. Not for me.” The dress was pretty, flirty. His hair tumbled and bounced as he moved, but they were still streaked with his ever more greying hair, and the figure beneath was still nothing but the gaunt, scarred husk of a body that had never even been that attractive to begin with. Jon had not even been near a mirror since Elias had begun, but he knew what he’d find there. A mockery, a clown. A shambles dressed like someone’s saccharine sweet daydream.</p><p> </p><p>Jon meets Elias’ piercing gaze, lips pressed together, and wonders if Elias is expecting more. If he expects words to spill forth from Jon the way they do from statement givers. Elias’ features are sharp and clear in Jon’s vision, which would not have been so significant if his glasses hadn’t been discarded off somewhere almost as soon as he’d entered the office. Just another change, changes upon changes, all of them tracing back to Elias. None of which Jon can be sure he can place the beginnings of, only the points at which he noticed – the points at which it was already too late to stop what had been put in motion.</p><p> </p><p>So much effort poured into Jon, for some end Jon can’t even conceive of. Although it’s hard to miss the approval on Elias’ face whenever Jon manages to stumble blindly into doing something right. Developing as Elias wants.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you still doing this?” Jon asks, twisting his gaze away again. He finds he’s not just talking about the impromptu makeover. “There’s – I already said, there’s <em>no point</em> – ”</p><p> </p><p>“And I disagree,” Elias cut across him smoothly. “I think there very much is a point.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon opens his mouth again to retort, only for Elias to catch his jaw and drag him back facing forward, thumb dangerously close to the edge of Jon’s mouth. It makes Jon snap his lips closed again, only for Elias to drag that thumb along his lower lip, making Jon’s face flame up with embarrassment.</p><p> </p><p>Elias’ gaze is <em>stern</em>. “We’re not finished here yet, Jon,” he tells him, voice deep, and Jon shivers. Nods. Elias’ mouth flickers into a brief smile as he twists down to open a draw and, after a moment draws out a small dark tube. Jon already knows what it is before Elias uncaps it to reveal a vivid, deep red stick. Jon’s fingers curl tight around the edge of the desk, digging in as he tries to keep himself still.</p><p> </p><p>“Very good,” was what Elias had to say on the subject, and Jon’s fingers dug in harder. <em>This is not a naturally occurring situation</em>, he tells himself. But then again, nothing in his life was normal anymore. Nothing he did made sense according to the <em>nature</em> he’d always believed in. And this, for all its surrealness, Jon had to admit was not, in itself, unpleasant. And so Jon lets Elias pull his mouth open with a finger on his lower lip, lets him gently run the lipstick along with the same fastidious precision Elias does everything else with. Jon doesn’t have to see the end result to know it’ll look perfect, as he presses his lips together as instructed, and Elias painstakingly touches up his work.</p><p> </p><p>Jon finds himself rubbing his lips together again as Elias puts the lipstick away, acclimatising  himself to the unfamiliar, waxy sensation. When Elias straightens up it is with a pencil liner and mascara in turn and Jon sits docilely once more as Elias works. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, and neither are Elias’ ministrations. It’s almost soothing, in the end.</p><p> </p><p>“…Do you always keep cosmetics in your office drawers?” Jon murmurs, taking a moment to blink and come back to himself when Elias finishes, and tucks away his tools. Elias takes Jon’s face in his hands carefully, cupping his cheeks to turn him back and forth, examining him from every angle. His palms cover many of the scars, and Jon finds his thoughts on them distant in any case, as though the memory of them has become fuzzy around the edges. It won’t be pleasant when it returns, but for just a moment he is unbothered by them, and more than happy to be held and observed.</p><p> </p><p>“Only for special occasions,” Elias tells him with a wry smile, his fingers sliding back from Jon’s cheeks and into his hair, dislodging the curls from where they’d settled. Jon can see them as Elias shakes them gently over his shoulders, twining them around his fingers almost playfully. Jon catches his wrist and Elias stills, watching the point of contact with something like anticipation. Jon considers letting go but, in the end, tightens his grip instead.</p><p> </p><p>“Am I a special occasion, Elias?” Jon asks, and Elias sighs, twisting so it is him holding Jon’s wrist, pulling them closer so he can rest his cheek against Jon’s palm. It felt immediately narcissistic even as he asked, but the way Elias looks at him –</p><p> </p><p>“Of course you are, Jon,” Elias breaths out, without a trace of irony or sarcasm in his words. Jon flushes. “You’re the single most special person in the world to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop it,” Jon grumbles, still red. “That’s too far. You ruined it.” Elias just laughs.</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps, but it’s no less true for that.”</p><p> </p><p>Elias releases him to step back again and although the urge to curl up returns, it is not so overpowering as before and Jon remains sat up straight. He feels too exposed for some sat in a locked office; it’s not as though someone could come bursting in and catch them. <em>Them</em>. Jon twists around to check the door anyway, swinging his legs absently where they dangle and don’t reach the floor. He looks back when he hears Elias approach again, this time with an expensive looking shoe box. Elias kneels down, a gesture Jon immediately enjoys too much, placing the box down and unpacking it slowly, removing the lid and unfolding the layers of tissue paper to reveal an elegant pair of ankle boots.</p><p> </p><p>Elias runs his hand down Jon’s leg carefully, beginning at the knee and dragging his palm down carefully, softly, until he cup’s Jon’s delicate ankle, stroking the protruding bone there carefully. Then, he presses a lingering kiss to the inside of Jon’s leg. Jon almost jumps out of his skin and Elias tightens his grip a little, most likely to avoid getting kicked in the face by mistake. Jon can feel him smiling when he presses his lips to the same spot once more.</p><p> </p><p>“Elias,” Jon says, warningly.</p><p> </p><p>“Jon,” Elias retorts, not looking even the least bit repentant.</p><p> </p><p>Jon leans forward to see the shoes again, intrigued and apprehensive as he sees the slender heels Elias apparently expects him to be able to balance on. They are the same shade of red as the lipstick, no doubt deliberate, and they fit well as Elias slides the first onto Jon’s foot. Everything about this has been deliberate. It has all happened so smoothly, so effortlessly, that Jon has barely questioned Elias’ level of preparedness. His mind wanders, imagining Elias browsing clothes shops online, picturing Jon in each item that piques his interest. Contrasting it to the picture Jon normally cut – that he <em>used</em> to cut. Jon with his neatly pressed trousers and his dowdy jumpers and shirts, frumpy to a fault. He hasn’t been that person for a long, long time now. It feels miles away from him in that moment, nothing but a distant memory as Elias secures the second shoe onto Jon’s foot and Jon is finally, <em>finally</em> up to Elias’ exacting standards.</p><p> </p><p>Elias stands, something breathless in his expression that makes the back of Jon’s throat catch too. He offers Jon a hand which is gracefully accepted, the other finding Jon’s waist as Elias eases him gently off of the desk and back onto his feet. They sting a little, from hanging for so long, and Jon immediately stumbles on the heels. But Elias is there, still holding him so carefully, so patiently. Jon tries to steady himself, to adjust to the sensation of the bend of his feet, to the glancing brushes of the skirt against his thighs. It’s different. It’s all so different. And Jon can’t imagine for a moment how it could possibly look any good on him.</p><p> </p><p>“Your opinion of yourself is far too low,” Elias admonishes him, pressing a kiss to Jon’s forehead. “You cannot fathom the things you are capable of being, Jon. Not as the Archivist, and not even as yourself. You close off so many doors before you’ve barely even peeked behind them, never letting yourself consider anything you think drifts too far from the norm. But you’re not normal, Jon. And you shouldn’t try to be, either.” <em>You’re better than that</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re pleased, then?” Jon asks instead, deflecting. “Whatever it is you’ve done, it – you like it?” <em>Regardless of what it really looks like?</em> Elias is silent and for a moment Jon panics. Then, his grip on Jon is changing, releasing Jon’s waist and lifting his hand up high. Before Jon knew it, Elias had given him a little shove and Jon was spinning on the spot. Jon stumbles, inelegant, but he picks up quickly, and soon it is a smooth twirling motion. Around and around, rotation after rotation, as though he were a figure in a music box, anchored in place by Elias’ grip.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you don’t know what you look like,” Elias breathes out, watching, enraptured, “I think you’re beautiful. I think you are so full of potential. I think,” Elias squeezes his hand, just briefly, “that it’s time you learnt what it is I see.”</p><p> </p><p>And suddenly, Jon’s gaze is not his own. He is beside, he is above – he is watching through Elias’ eyes, watching the figure who is himself making their slow, smooth spins as though in the throes of a dance. Jon watches. Watches the slim, androgynous figure, wrapped delicately in flouncing black and white, long legs stretching down as they step with new surety into the next step and the next, no longer unsteady. Jon sees the whirl of the skirt, high enough for the edge of the stockings to glimpse through. Sees the long hair, streaked with his grey streaks, flying up around shoulders that have dropped down, tension released from them. He sees the face revealed as the turn comes around to face Elias, his own eyes opening as he meets his own gaze. They are wide, cheeks flushed, red lips full and opened in shock as Jon’s surprise filters through to his body even as his gaze remains captive.</p><p> </p><p><em>It’s not me</em>, Jon thinks with sudden alarm. <em>No. No. This was a mistake, this was all a mistake, I’m not – I can’t be –</em> Jon is trauma made flesh. He is trauma and scars and his outside reflects that and always have. This isn’t him. Not this figure who bears all his marks, the pockmarks that creep up the side of their neck, but don’t overwhelm, the burn scars that are barely visible because Elias’ hand is wrapped around them so gently. This figure is soft, and pretty, and Jon cannot reconcile what he sees with who he is.</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps not, Jon,” Elias’ voice comes as a whisper, “but this is not about what <em>you</em> see.”</p><p> </p><p>And Jon is pushed deeper into Elias’ mind, not just seeing but <em>Seeing</em>. He meets his own eyes in that unsettlingly pretty face, so delicately made up, a gaze without fear as Elias stops Jon’s spinning to pull him close. Elias hums, pleased.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Jon says, and is back in his own head, watching Elias watching him, expression enamoured. Invasive. Jon might have blushed at it again. Might have curled in on himself, withdrawn, shied away. He thinks of the figure he saw in Elias’ arms, the ease of their stance, the peace in their gaze. Jon holds Elias’ gaze steadily, feels the beating of own heart, rapid for reasons other than fear for the first time in too long. And in that moment, just for a moment, Jon <em>wants</em>. Elias smiles, and leans in to press a lingering kiss to Jon’s red lips.</p><p> </p><p>“There you are, Jon,” he murmurs when they part. “Not you? How can you say such a thing, when you wear it so wonderfully?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s <em>not</em> him, Jon thinks, twining his arms around Elias’ neck in order to lean in close. Jon is not fearless. Not confident. And yet he can feel the sway of the dress skirt against his thighs; can feel the bow nestled around his neck, pressed between them. Just as he can feel the person who that could be, hurt and broken and beautiful besides, content in themselves and willing to be looked at the way Elias looks at him right now. It’s not him. <em>It’s not him</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>But oh, </em>Jon thinks, pulling Elias down into another kiss, <em>oh how</em> <em>it could be him.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Let me know what you think!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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